I once told a neighbor that my hobby was laziness, but I was always too busy for it. By the time she got through laughing and wiping her eyes she was in no mood to listen to my explanation. The explanation being that I had too many responsibilities.
There were always things that HAD to get done. And they had to get done by me because there was no one else to do them. You know — jobs like housekeeper, mother, chauffeur, later as caregiver, not to mention the paying jobs over the years. I never made a career of just one. I have a very low threshold of BORED. Doing the same things over and over again day after day after endless day is depressing and makes me stupid. It kills more brain cells than hard liquor. Yet whatever job I undertake, I work hard at it, be it ever so humble.
But there has always been this little lizard lying back in my subconscious that has yearned to be free. Free to lie in the warm sand, or on the soft grass, curled up with a really good book or word puzzle. Maybe even a new notebook with creamy pages and empty lines beckoning to be filled. I’ve even dreamed of writing the Great American Novel.
But . . . I’m lazy. I start out gung-ho, but after several pages and too many hurdles I’m ready for a nap. It’s hard enough to live my own life, much less make up nonexistent but real people with nonexistent but real problems and coming up with nonexistent but real solutions. That’s fiction in a nutshell.
So you see. The blog’s my thing. I get an urge to write — call it my Muse, my imagination, or too many cups of coffee — it’s short and sweet and satisfying.
I’ve tried collecting all the equipment for being lazy. Oh, yes. Make no mistake. Every hobby must have its equipment, be we male or female hobbyists. There’s always the trip to the store to purchase something. For those of us who are REALLY lazy, we may now shop online. But even before computers there were catalogs.
I once bought a hammock which Mike strung up between two trees in our little copse of hardwoods out front. Lots of shade. Peace and quiet. But that plan didn’t work. By the time I had lugged my pillows, soft throw, books and snack to my shady idyll, somebody would inevitably spot me and think, “Oh, that poor — lady, mother, neighbor, etc — she is alone and needs company.” Orrrr. “I need something and Linda is NOT DOING ANYTHING. How fortunate for me.” We wound up having to move the hammock around to the side of the house where I never really used it anymore. It finally just rotted and crumbled, like my lazy plans.
Now, after all these years, I have leisure to implement my lazy lifestyle. Not as many demands and when there are, I sometimes get up to answer them — sometimes I don’t. Oh, I still keep my house reasonably clean and take out the garbage. But if I’m watching a movie or I’m in a really tense chapter in a really good book, or just looking out the window, I don’t get up to take stuff to the garbage. I just ball it up and toss it toward the sink. I’m really good at it and hardly ever miss. Then when I HAVE to get up, I transfer said junk to the garbage. I have all kinds of cool ways to save energy. I should write a book.
But the laziest story I ever heard was one I read about on NPR this morning. See. There was this Navy officer [true story] who was so lazy. . . (Drum roll). How lazy was he? He was so lazy that instead of moving his seat in his wardroom when the sun got in his eyes, he ordered the ship to change course. My hero. And oh, to have that much power.
So what do you have to do to join Linda’s Lazy Lounging Lizard Club? THAT’S the beauty of it. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just think it, and it’s done. Tell your lazy friends about it. But don’t go to any trouble. NOTE: I was going to call it Linda’s Lazy Lounge Lizard Club, but then Mike told me what a lounge lizard is, so I changed the name pretty darn fast.
Now, here’s a little ditty I wrote years ago about how living in the Deep South makes you lazy — people and animals alike. Enjoy.
Southern Discomfort – by Linda McDaniel Smith
Cats drip from deck rails;
Dogs splatter porches, felled by Fahrenheit.
Azaleas cast narcotic nets, holding senses hostage.
Bees droooooooone . . .
Flies buzzzzzzzzzzz . . .
Eyes glaaaazzzzzze . . .
and . . . ummmm . . . . . . .
Wha? Oh, yeah . . .
Summer puts you in a daze
In the South.
Bye now. Y’all come back now, ya heer.